A Ghost Called Molly
by OpheliaLovegood
Summary: "He didn't know this Molly Weasley. This person hollowed out by grief." There is no quick cure for this type of loss. A conversation between Molly and Harry several months after the Battle of Hogwarts.


Authors Note: I do not own Harry Potter. I'm just borrowing the characters for a while :)

**A Ghost Called Molly**

She and Harry were the only two people in the house. It was eerily quiet. No knitting needles clacking away by themselves in the corner. The clock that showed the state and approximate place of every family member was not ticking away in its usual spot. Harry knew from Ron that she'd thrown it across the room after the battle, the hand representing Fred having burned away leaving a little pile of ash on the floor. Arthur asked Ron to hide the traitorous clock until further notice.

After Fred's death at the Battle of Hogwarts the family made sure that Molly and Arthur were never alone. Or never too alone. Someone was always within shouting distance.

On this day, Harry was the one chosen to stay with Mrs. Weasley. He'd not wanted the task. He didn't know what to say to her right now. Arthur was easier. At least they could both drink together. Fittingly, Ginny had thumped him on the back of the head and asked if he really believed any of them knew what to say to her.

He consented of course and took a seat at the huge kitchen table. It'd not had a proper meal on it for weeks now.

He sat there still, an hour later, leafing through a 7th year Transfiguration textbook. All students who were absent for their final year at Hogwarts had been invited to come back to school in September. There were even students who _had_ been there and decided to retake the year. He still didn't know if he was going to go back but it seemed like a good idea to read the textbook.

Harry started as he heard the sound of footsteps from the other room. In the silence he'd almost forgotten she was so close.

Slowly she shuffled into the kitchen. Their eyes met for a moment. She looked lost. She held an empty glass in one hand. Her usually plump form had become gaunt and there was a grey pallor to her skin. Harry knew she rarely left her room let alone go outdoors into the sunlight. Although she had been in the sitting room she was still wearing a nightgown with a heavy, embroidered shawl on her shoulders. Despite the heat of the summer she always appeared to be cold lately.

The moment of eye contact passed fleetingly and she turned away to pump some water from the old-fashioned sink. He was glad it was water and not the fire whisky he knew Mr. Weasley was slugging back in Hogsmeade. He hadn't been back to the house since the clock incident. Ron said he'd started out helping with the castle clean-up effort but soon petered out.

Harry watched as she tried the pump but it wouldn't go all the way down. In the weeks of neglect, it was getting a bit sticky. Harry hurried to help and she held out her glass while he levered the handle with some effort. When it was full he stopped and turned to her.

This time she held his gaze and he saw a sort of recognition there. Like she hadn't really noticed him before that moment. She seemed to be looking for something in his face and he did his best to hold steady under the intense scrutiny. He didn't know this Molly Weasley. This person hollowed out by grief.

They stood still there for a moment, then she reached up and touched his cheek. It was comforting and felt like the motherly touch she possessed before all this horror. He couldn't help closing his eyes and leaning just a little into her hand. In an instant the feathery touch became a sharp sting.

He'd been slapped before. The residents of Number Four Privet Drive had all given him a good whack over the years. To be fair he'd usually been able to dodge Dudley's clumsy slugs. This blow, however, had been utterly unexpected and distinctly painful for more than the obvious reasons.

He'd seen Mrs. Weasley dish out light cuffs now and then but never outrightly slapping any of her children. Harry always sort of thought of her as the exact opposite of Petunia Dursley. Kind, warm and open to strays like him.

His eyes opened wide to see her looking back at him horrified. "Oh," she said simply and brought the offending hand to her mouth in shock. She dropped the glass into the metal sink and, although it did not break, it made an awful clatter. Quickly she turned away and went to sit down at the empty table.

She fell heavily onto the bench, the silence thick between them.

Finally Harry spoke up. "You're allowed to blame me for this."

A couple seconds passed before she answered. "No, I'm not. I'm supposed to blame him… Voldemort."

Harry let the name hang in the air for an entire minute before he found an answer. "There was a time when I didn't have anything to feel guilty about. I didn't ask to have my name at the front of this cause but it is anyway and now people are dead. He was a monster but I have blood on my hands too. You're allowed to blame me for Fred, and Lupin and Tonks and Mad-Eye and all the others."

She looked up at him then and, for the first time in a long time, her eyes seemed clear. Still haunted and shining a bit with restrained tears, but clear.

"I love you Harry Potter. You have become like one of my own babies. But now one of my babies is dead and my family is in a shambles. My husband is pickling himself and nobody has seen George since... The other boys and Ginny are trying to be strong but the cracks are deep. I think I'll need to be the one to fix them and soon maybe I will be able to start.

I love you Harry Potter and do not want you to leave forever. When I am strong enough to love you the way a mother should you will come back and be one of my babies again. But for right now I can't have you here. I don't have enough of myself yet."

Harry felt like he had been punched. Her words twisted in his gut and he felt the threat of tears in his own eyes. Her gaze had become steely however and, despite his pain, he felt like a tiny piece of her might have come back to life. With a wrenching solemnity he nodded and walked to the door. Before he reached it she caught up his hand in hers. A moment later she was gone up the stairs but not before giving his fingers a fleeting squeeze.

In the dying light of the afternoon he collected up the things he had brought into his rucksack. He didn't know when he'd be back but he held onto the word she'd used, 'mother'.

It would happen in time. It had to.


End file.
